Sherlock stared at the apparition in front of him as it spun in a quick, joyful circle and then pelted out of the room. "That was John's voice," he said, feeling numb.

"Indeed," said Dumbledore behind him. "And it was his Patronus, as well. It seems as if our concerns about unleashing that curse on an unsuspecting public isn't necessary after all."

Sherlock turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"Dr Watson could not have sent a Patronus if he could not cast the spell, Mr Holmes. It seems that he may have found a way to get his magic back."

He was just absorbing that when the office door opened and a friendly-looking man about John's age leaned in. "Mr Holmes? I'm Neville Longbottom. I'm supposed to bring you to see John in the hospital wing."

Sherlock was already striding toward the door. "Is he hurt?"

"Oh, no," said Neville. "I mean, a burn on his hand, and Madame Pomfrey is insisting on a full diagnostic for some reason, but no. He looks great. Or, well, exhausted, I suppose, but beaming. Not sure why he's carrying a cane, to be honest, but when I asked, he just grinned like a loon and held on tighter. He didn't want to give up the melted Muggle thing he had, either. Not exactly sure why, but I feel like I'm coming into the middle of this whole thing—I missed the first couple acts and am just now trying to catch up."

"Well," Sherlock said as they went down the hallway (more living paintings and—were those stairs moving?), "It appears that the curse John has been living with for the last twenty years has been lifted."

"Curse? What curse?"

Sherlock looked down at the shorter man. The man seemed friendly and had an open face, but this was yet another person who had essentially abandoned John Watson. "You didn't know?" he asked, already sure of the answer.

"Just that he went back to the Muggle world because he was so disgusted with the way he'd been treated that last year—though to be honest, he was better off out of Hogwarts. It was a nightmare that year, professors torturing the kids they didn't like … awful."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Torture? That's hyperbole, surely."

"Unfortunately, no. The Carrows regularly used the cruciatus curse … er, do you know what that is? John said you were a Muggle."

He thought this was perhaps not the right time to protest that ridiculous word. "I am, and no, I do not know—though by its Latin root, I imagine it's a curse that causes pain?"

"Excruciating pain," Neville said, a shadow in his eyes. "People have been driven mad by it."

"Someone you know."

A nod. "My parents, back in the first war. It's why I was raised by my Gran. Anyway, coming from a Muggle family, even if John had been able to come seventh year, it … it wouldn't have been good for him. So, when he left after the Battle, we just figured he wanted nothing else to do with us. He never even claimed his payout for fighting in the Battle—and you're saying he was cursed?"

Sherlock nodded, remembering the Headmasters' concerns. Perhaps discretion was the wiser decision, here. He didn't know how much this man could be trusted—no matter how friendly he seemed—and anyway, John might prefer not to have his secrets told. "Yes, and he's lived as a Muggle ever since—which is how we met."

"Cor," said Neville. "I can't even imagine that—how did he resist the temptation? Even if he put his wand away somewhere… Anyway, here we are." He pushed open a door to show a rather ordinary looking hospital ward—a room with beds and privacy screens, nothing out of the ordinary. Or, mostly. There were no beeps or blips from medical machinery, no IV stands. Several patients were under full restraints, and at least one looked as if he'd been turned into a statue.

He was waved down the ward by a beaming Hermione. "Sherlock! Isn't it wonderful?"

Debatable, he thought, as he walked toward the crowd clustered around the farthest bed. John did, in fact, look happy as he sat on the bed, hovered over by the elderly witch who had appeared in the fireplace earlier. "I can't explain it," he was saying. "Maybe the cruciatus broke through the block, or mixed with the mobile signal somehow. I just know it felt like every nerve in my body was being purged with fire. I didn't expect that shield spell to work, I just saw that wizard about to curse Harry and … Sherlock! Are you okay?"

"I'm not the one in a hospital bed, John."

He hadn't thought John's smile could get any broader. "Well, no, but I'm not hurt, either—it's just that Madame Pomfrey is insisting on running diagnostics. I thought you'd either be bored in the headmaster's office, or that the portraits would be trying to jinx you silent by now."

"Really, you give me so little credit, John. We had some extremely enlightening conversations." He gave a small smile. "I believe the Headmaster might need to move his computer to make the screen available—apparently they are quite curious about the idea of films now. Their expressions when I showed them the picture on my phone were quite entertaining."

"I almost feel badly about having had to shoot that … thing, whatever it was," John said. "It was probably a Crumplehorned Snorkack or something equally rare. I wonder if Luna would know?"

Sherlock didn't know why the others all started to laugh, but tried not to let it bother him. It was hardly the first time he'd been excluded from a group—at least he knew they weren't laughing at him. He just had the feeling that this was the beginning of the end for the remarkable friendship he'd experienced with John. He should be grateful, really, for having had it at all, for having been able to enjoy the rare sense of companionship and affection. He would be fine without it, of course. It wasn't like he wasn't used to being on his own, after all. It would just take some … adjustment.

He blinked, realizing that the others were all looking at him. Had he missed something? Had they asked him something? Rather than ask them to repeat it, he just forged ahead. "So, you're cured, then?"

A flicker of something passed through John's eyes and for a moment Sherlock worried he'd missed something important. "Looks that way," John said.

Sherlock forced a smile. Well, partially forced, because he supposed he was pleased for John's sake that he had his magic back. He was just unused to taking other people's feelings into consideration. "That's good," he managed. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," John said, though something of his earlier enthusiasm had dimmed.

They were saved further awkward conversation by the nurse (or whatever) bustling back, pulling out a wand. She started scanning it over John's body as she said, "Just checking for any nerve damage from the cruciatus curse, Mr Watson."

"Doctor," Sherlock corrected automatically.

They were all staring at him again, he thought with a mental sigh. "What? He earned the title. He deserves it."

"Er, wizards don't have doctors, Sherlock," John said. "The official title is Healer, and I can't claim that one."

Oh. Sherlock's earlier enthusiasm for the unknown, still-to-be-explored wizarding world was fading fast. There was too much he didn't know, too many ways he would never fit in. John would be welcomed back into the fold and that would be that. Sherlock would go back to solving (boring, mundane) crimes and likely never see John again.

The entire scenario was hateful.

He didn't know what was on his face, but the others were looking at him with some concern now. The only one to speak, though, was Madame Pomfrey, asking what on earth had happened to John's shoulder?

"I was shot," John said. "There was some nerve damage—nothing too serious."

No, thought Sherlock, just serious enough to take away your career as a surgeon along with the one in the army. Nothing worth mentioning, just one more life, one more career, one more notch on your belt before moving on. Like detective's assistant. He wondered if it would even make John's CV, or if a handful of months as his colleague and friend wasn't worth the ink it took to print it. Quill ink, no doubt, which he supposed would at least save John from his abysmal typing skills, not that his handwriting was much better.

He watched as the healer practically forced a nerve-regeneration potion down John's throat. She explained that it would take care of any residual damage from the curse tonight, but would more importantly help mend the destruction caused by his Afghani bullet wound. "It won't take away the scar, just restore the nerves," she was saying, "I could try to remove the scar tissue, but after this length of time…"

"No," John said, "A man's scars are his own, and I earned that one. It wouldn't feel right not having it—not to mention raising uncomfortable questions at my next physical. Scars just don't disappear, you know. If you can restore the feeling, though … that would be brilliant."

Sherlock watched him swallow down the potion and nodded to himself. Yes, there it went—the last bar holding John down, the last limitation keeping him from what he loved. Now he had his magic back, could have his medical career back…

Now John had no reason to stay at all.

#

He gave a nod and turned away as John grimaced—apparently nerve regeneration was painful. He wondered how long he had before John decided to move out. Would Mycroft release his trust fund, now he'd lost his flatmate through no fault of his own? He didn't think Mrs Hudson would kick him out, but it was unfair to expect her to accept less rent just because John had rejoined his old world…

"Sherlock?" He turned to find Harry, concern on his face. "Are you all right?"

"What? Me? I'm fine," Sherlock said. "I wasn't the one fighting for my life tonight. That worked out for you, I see?"

"Thanks to you, I hear. There were more of them than I expected."

Sherlock shrugged it off. Of course he'd been right, though he wasn't particularly in the mood for small talk—an abomination at the best of times.

Harry allowed it though. "What made you suspect?"

"The language of the site—it was meant to sound as if it idolized you, but it didn't quite ring true. And when I saw the author of the site called himself Neode … neo-D-E. New Death Eater. It all became obvious it was meant to be a trap. From what I hear, though, I don't know why they wanted to kidnap your aunt and cousin. Your relationship with them doesn't sound … ideal."

"You could say that," Harry said with a snort. "I haven't seen or talked to them in twenty-one years, but whoever set this up knew that I would still come to rescue them. They planned a blood ritual that would … I don't even know. Something with werewolves and corrupting my blood through the link to theirs. We didn't exactly let it get that far—thanks to John and his silver bullets."

Silver…? A distant memory stirred and Sherlock felt his lips quirk upwards. "Typical of John—giving enough credence to superstition to use it as a safety measure. He'll risk his own life in a heartbeat but gets irrationally upset when other people do."

"That's true," said Harry, studying him for a moment. "You're making the same mistake we made, you know."

"Indeed? And what mistake is that?"

"Thinking he's about to walk away," Harry said, glancing back at John's bed. "We thought he had done that twenty years ago, but it turned out that he hadn't walked—he'd been left behind. And none of us reached out to pull him back, to let him know he was wanted. We thought we were letting him make his own decisions, not realizing that, to him, it felt as if all his options had been taken away."

Sherlock thawed a bit, if only because Harry was trying to look out for John. At least his friend wouldn't be alone anymore. "You're mistaken," he said after a moment. "Unlike the last time, John has just had all his options returned to him. He could do anything he wants now."

He was surprised at the sympathy in Harry's eyes. "And what makes you sure he wouldn't want to continue what he's doing now? With you?"

Sherlock barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes. Working with him had never been anybody's choice.

They stood a moment longer, shifting their weight as the infirmary bustled around them. Then Harry said, "John Watson has always been loyal to a fault—usually my fault, back in our Hogwarts days. He won't turn his back on a friend, but he's stupidly modest enough that, if he thinks he's in the way, he'll pull back. He, Ron, and I were all best friends at the beginning, our first year here, but once Hermione joined, too … he backed off, as if he were making room. As if he thought there wasn't enough room for him. He didn't stop being our friend, but he thought he was in our way, that we didn't want him, and so he retreated. But every time we ever needed his help, he was right there—including in the Battle of Hogwarts. He saved Charlie's life that night and I don't think he's ever forgiven himself for not saving Fred, too. But that's John."

He looked down the row of beds, face solemn, and then continued, "Then, after … he obviously felt, I don't know, excluded? In the way? A burden? I really have no idea, but he left—and he did it in such a way that none of us even realized. You have no idea how much I wish I'd followed that up, followed him to make sure he was all right, but I thought I was respecting his choice—not realizing that he felt he had none."

"Yes, yes," said Sherlock, "You feel terrible, but John's forgiven you and all is well. Why are you telling me this?"

"I told you," Harry said, "You're making the same mistake. I was watching you just now, Sherlock, as you decided that he would probably choose to come back to the wizarding world and leave you behind … but you're wrong. He's a fiercely loyal friend, remember? The only thing that would make him choose to leave would be thinking that you wanted him to."

Him? That was absurd, thought Sherlock. Why would he want John to leave? Harry was clearly mistaken. This wasn't Sherlock choosing not to have John at Baker Street, this was Sherlock being generous and giving him the freedom to do what he wants. And he hoped John appreciated it, too, because this kind of selflessness was completely against Sherlock's nature, and it was obviously not going to happen again. If John wanted out, this was his chance, and Sherlock was not going to stand in his way.

All he said was, "I'm not going to interfere with his choice, Harry."

Harry gave him a small smile. "Which is good, just … make sure he knows that staying your flatmate is also an option. Right now, he's thinking you don't want anything to do with him because he's a wizard again. Certainly your reaction just now when he told you we invited him to the 20th anniversary service next month didn't help. If you're not careful, he's going to do that appallingly noble thing of his and back quietly away so as to make things easier for you. If you don't want him to do that, you need to make sure he knows you don't want it."

That made no sense, did it? Why would John choose anything against his own best interests if he had any choice in the matter?

The grin on Harry's face made no sense as the other man slapped him on the shoulder and said, "Just, talk to him before either of you makes any irreversible decisions, huh? Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk to my aunt and cousin."

"Has it really been twenty years since you spoke to them?" asked Sherlock, eyeing the two people huddled in beds at the end of the row, watching everything with wide, terrified eyes.

"Twenty-one, technically—the day before my 17th birthday."

Sherlock nodded, watching as their eyes kept following Harry. "If it helps, whatever you did tonight impressed them. They're wondering why you helped them, but they're watching you with a grudging respect—which means you have the upper hand. One of these days you'll need to tell me exactly what happened twenty years ago that causes all these people to admire you so."

"Because it's otherwise inexplicable?" Harry asked, amused.

Sherlock just smirked at him. "Go on and talk to your Muggle relatives." He took another glance at the unimpressive pair and sniffed. He supposed that—if that was what wizards pictured when they thought of Muggles—he almost couldn't blame them for thinking so little of them.

#

It was two in the morning before they reached home, and when they did, John was beyond exhausted. The adrenalin of earlier in the evening had completely abandoned him by now, and he didn't think even magic could keep him awake for much longer.

Magic. Now there was something he hadn't expected to ever think about again, much less be able to perform. It was still a mystery to him, how this had happened, but he wasn't in the mood to question it. When the gods dropped a miracle in your lap, you didn't ask why. He looked over at Sherlock, moving a bit like a man who couldn't quite believe what had just happened. "You all right?"

Sherlock just stared at him. "We went over this. I'm not the one who nearly died tonight, John."

"Well, no," John said calmly, "But that doesn't mean tonight wasn't something of a shock. A whole new world you didn't know about, finding out that I've actually successfully kept a secret from you … it's all a bit of a surprise."

Sherlock gave a tiny smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, that's true. You're usually appalling at secrets."

"Ta, Sherlock." John sat down in his chair, too tired to move toward the stairs. He didn't have the energy to go make tea, either, it was just too long a walk to the kitchen … and then he realized he could use his wand, and couldn't stop the smile.

"You're thinking about doing magic, aren't you?"

John almost felt embarrassed as he nodded. "It just doesn't seem real, after twenty years. Part of me still doesn't believe the curse is gone."

Sherlock nodded, face stiff. "May I see?"

"I don't remember much," John warned. "I'm going to have to get my old textbooks out of storage."

"Well, if you don't want to…"

"I didn't say that," John said. "I just … I've forgotten a lot."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," said Sherlock, and there was something about his voice that caught John's attention.

"You mean it?" John tried not to wince at the eagerness in his voice. He wasn't eleven anymore. He should be past wanting to show off … and yet, to be able to cast a working spell again. How could he not be excited? And he really did want a cup of tea. But no, he was twenty years rusty, and culinary spells had never been his specialty. Instead, he aimed his wand at the now-cold fireplace and said, "Incendio," and watched with a sense of wonder as the flames burst cheerfully into life.

No, that wasn't going to get old any time soon.

Sherlock barely reacted, though, just stared into the flames, face inscrutable.

"I was thinking before that wizarding travel could come in handy for getting to crime scenes," John said into the awkward silence that followed. "Think of the cab fare we could save."

Sherlock didn't say anything, and John stifled a sigh, thinking seriously about the comfort of that cup of tea. "I'm going to need a new mobile," he said after a minute. "The new one will probably have even more features I don't know how to use."

There was still no reaction from Sherlock and John sighed to himself. He should have seen it coming, he supposed, though he had hoped Sherlock would be interested, curious about the wizarding world. He supposed it was all too illogical for his friend, or that Sherlock simply didn't like being the least-informed person in the room. He probably should have seen it coming, but … who would have thought this would ever be an issue?

After a few more minutes of silence, he pushed himself to his feet. "It's been a long night. I'll see you…"

"You don't need to leave," Sherlock said, voice abrupt.

John paused, still holding onto the cane he'd transfigured earlier. "I'm just going to bed, Sherlock."

His flatmate inclined his head. "Yes, but I mean … you don't have to leave. Just because you're a wizard again. Not unless you really want to."

John sank back down into his chair. "Are you sure? Because you don't seem too … happy … about any of this."

"Magic is illogical," Sherlock told him, "And you probably have numerous reasons for wanting to return to your old world, your old friends—they certainly seem eager to have you back—but, I just … you don't have to go."

John knew he was staring but couldn't help himself. "What are you talking about?"

"You're a wizard again, John," Sherlock snapped out. "Why would you possibly want to stay here with your Muggle flatmate if you don't have to? Though don't even get me started on that absurd word. It's completely ridiculous and obviously insulting, even if the etymology is unclear. It classifies the majority of the population as something less, something laughable. It's incredibly insulting."

John could feel a his cheeks lifting as his mood lightened. "How long have you been holding that in?"

"All night," Sherlock said with a huff of relief. "It's an utterly ridiculous word, John."

"I know, but trust me, it's not as insulting as some of the others," John told him. "Considering the way the war went, with the purebloods willing to kill any magic-user who wasn't from a wizarding family … I don't mind hearing the absurd 'Muggle' anymore."

"Of course you don't," said Sherlock, "You no longer are one."

John laughed a bit. "I haven't had a complete personality transfer in the last two hours since my magic came back, Sherlock. Not only did I grow up as one, but I spent the last 20 years as a Muggle. Frankly, I'm more proud of that than not. It's not every wizard who gets a good perspective of both worlds. Most give up most of their ties to the Muggle world when they start at Hogwarts—they might keep in touch with their families, and all, but the interactions are limited."

He paused a moment, thinking about how his relationship with his sister had never entirely recovered from his heading to Hogwarts that first year. In many ways, the two worlds really weren't meant to combine. "Which reminds me," he said, "Harry mentioned our maybe becoming consultants for the Aurors—wizarding police, that is—for when they have crimes that overlap into the Muggle world. Since you know now, there are things you can see that we'd have to keep from ordinary people. The crimes certainly wouldn't be boring."

"You shouldn't make promises you can't keep, John," Sherlock said, teasing. "I'm sure magical killers are just as unimaginative as normal people."

John thought back to some of the things he'd seen at Hogwarts. "I don't know. A culture that is willing to feed its children jelly beans that come in every flavour—including bogies, vomit, and grass—can come up with some pretty wild ideas. When I get out my old spell books, we can both go over them, so you have an idea what's possible. It's just a pity you can't debate chemistry and potions with Snape—I'd love to witness that conversation." He couldn't help but grin at the thought. "On the other hand, you'll be able to wow them with your technological prowess, since I'm probably the only wizard my age who has any idea what a smart phone is—which should tell you how bad it is, not that they care."

"I gathered that from my conversation earlier," Sherlock said, something in his shoulders relaxing. "Apparently we Muggles are one bare step above Neanderthal brutes."

"Well, if you're talking about Anderson…" quipped John.

"Not quite—though his reaction to a room full of talking portraits would have been entertaining."

John let out a burst of laughter. "God, yes. I can just see it. Even better than Mycroft's reaction to flooing."

He was relieved to see Sherlock's eyes were alight now, that everything about his friend was lighter. "I suppose you're going to insist on telling him about your … change in status?"

"Apparently he's got sensors in his office, so I don't have much choice."

"So you'll only have one chance to hex him then, won't you?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not hexing your brother," John said firmly. "But I suppose I could be convinced to light the fire or levitate in the tea set next time he visits, and if you happened to be in the room to catch his reaction… Though, really, that would need to be today, since he's going to need an update."

And with that, to John's relief the odd tension was gone and they were able to talk about the events of the night. "In the long run," John said, after describing what had happened in the forest, "I think I scared the Dursleys more than anything else—a perfectly normal Muggle, so far as they knew, and then I was casting spells … for them, the idea of being able to perform magic was more terrifying than anything else they'd faced. They were practically catatonic by the time they got them to the hospital wing."

"Idiots," muttered Sherlock. "I don't see why Harry was so eager to save them."

"That's what Harry does," said John with a shrug. "They did seem pretty impressed when he was duelling three wizards at once—they haven't seen him since he was 17, you know. I don't think they had any idea the kind of man he's grown into."

"Hmm." Sherlock tilted his head back in his chair. "That's the problem with the families that raised us—they suffer from eternal misconceptions."

"True," said John, thinking about his turbulent relationship with his sister. "I'm probably going to have to tell Harry—my Harry—at some point, huh?"

"Or maybe save the news for some special occasion," Sherlock said, "One that would have the best effect?"

And, smiling, John leaned back in his chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Magic or not, Sherlock would never change.

"There is one problem, though," Sherlock finally said.

"What's that?"

"How are we going to explain Vernon Dursley's murder to DI Evans?"

#

THE END